


among fair folk

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [188]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Caranthir is a tiny, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Gen, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Soft filler fic with no real purpose except to give us some momentary respite, they all are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: “Can we tell her?” Macalaure asked, in a whisper.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Nerdanel & Sons of Fëanor
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [188]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	among fair folk

Nerdanel had hoped that, with four children, her babies would resemble each other enough so as to let her make use of the knowledge she had previously earned.

It wasn’t so. Maitimo had been a sweet little thing, with silk curls and rose-petal ears. There were soft creases around his wrists, which, if they were kissed, made him bubble with laughter. He had been delicate, too, and it was just as well that he spent his first months in summer, learning to crawl on the warm grass.

Macalaure had weathered winter without any trouble, since he had been deliciously fat, and prone to complacency. At least, he was complacent until he lengthened into a scrawny, nervous toddler, whose chirping voice asked _why_ at every other moment.

Stout, golden Celegorm asked _why_ also, but he was impatient, and sought his answers for himself. Nerdanel was not prepared for a child who could be found trying to roost with chickens, or who tried (and failed) to make himself comfortable in an ant’s nest.

And then there was Caranthir.

Caranthir screamed.

Morning, noon, and in the middle of the night, when Nerdanel was too exhausted to do much but rest in Feanor’s arms while his hands moved gently over her, Caranthir screamed.

“There is something wrong with that child,” said Feanor, who hated when he could not soothe his sons. He always felt like it was a personal failing.

“He may have the colic again,” Nerdanel said, trying not to cry. “Little one, little red-faced one, please...hush now. _Hush_.”

Attending Mass was out of the question. Feanor took the older boys, and Nerdanel baked the hours away with Caranthir in his basket on the wide kitchen windowsill. He was happiest in the morning, anyway. He screamed for half an hour, after being suckled, but then he went very quiet and still. 

“See Carnistir?” She liked to play with the syllables of her son’s names—or the names they’d almost been named—when she was alone with them. Thus she had derived _Maitimo_ and _Macalaure_ , which now she could not forget. “It is not so bad.”

He blinked his dark eyes. They would lighten; all the boys’ had, though Celegorm’s were a touch greener than the rest, and Maedhros had had his near-silver color since birth.

Nerdanel was overcome by all of them. By how much one heart could love.

“And if your father has his way with me, there will be more of you yet.” She pinched the pie-crust edge with her fingers. “I cannot resist him.” She smiled to herself, in secret affection—for though they had not been without their troubles, their dark moments, their icy silences…all was well again, with the birth of each new son.

Feanor was at his most loving when new life was in the world.

The clock ticked, and the May flowers basked in green-edged sunlight. Nerdanel saw from the window that there were four figures walking abreast on the road, linked by their hands.

Maitimo had grown a little, since his seventh birthday. He was at Feanor’s elbow now, towering above skinny Macalaure. Celegorm was almost Macalaure’s height, in fact; he would be a big man, though for now, he was bobbing along in his blue calico dress (Nerdanel had given up on fitting him out in white). His blond curls bobbed too.

She could see all this, shading her eyes with her hand. And she could see Feanor, his hand in Celegorm’s, his grey Sunday coat smart and well-fitted.

It had been a gift from Finwe.

Nerdanel slipped the last pie in the oven. Wonder of wonders, Caranthir had fallen asleep, his face rosy rather than red.

She gathered her skirts in her hands and tiptoed across the sanded floor.

“Sit on the grass?” Feanor said. “And _eat_ here?” He sounded scandalized, but there was a _knowingness_ to it—and he winked at the sons who were gathered like mushrooms around him.

 _Very_ like mushrooms, come to think of it. Nerdanel knew she had gone too far, cutting their hair around the bowl’s edge.

Macalaure giggled.

Maitimo bit his lips, solemnly.

Celegorm blew a bubble between his pink lips (they were trying to stop him from doing that), and flicked up a thimbleful of dirt.

Where had he gotten the thimble?

“Can we tell her?” Macalaure asked, in a whisper.

Nerdanel had been about to fetch the bread and cheese and apples—all things that could be cut into pieces, easily, and passed from hand to hand—but she paused.

“Tell me what?”

“Your mother will be _envious_ ,” Feanor whispered back, eyes twinkling.

“Oh,” Maitimo said, brow furrowing. “Will she? I don’t—”

“We saw _little people_ ,” Macalaure cried, unable to contain himself. “The people of the woodlands, a—all the birch people, and the dancing fiddles.”

“Fiddle-ferns,” Feanor corrected, still with that smile. “Yes, Nerdanel. Our sons may soon be traded for changelings. They saw the Fair Folk on our way home from Holy Mass.”

“Now that seems hard to believe,” Nerdanel said, though she hid her laughter from Macalaure’s shining eyes. “The saints and angels attending you did not drive them away?”

“They were having a feast, so maybe they didn’t notice us,” Maitimo said, his dimples showing. He had decided, after all, to be in on the game. “They were drinking raindrops from leaves.”

“Dancing under toadstools,” Feanor agreed. “How those fiddlers played!”

“They danced _beautifully_ ,” Macalaure agreed. “Very, very beautifully.”

“I am very envious,” Nerdanel said gravely. “But also quite happy for you. You must be hungry—or do the changelings have smaller appetites than my sons?”

“Hungry,” muttered Celegorm, still poking at the dirt.

Caranthir’s wail sounded from the kitchen. Nerdanel sighed.

“Well then,” Feanor said, getting to his feet so that he could help her rise, too. “ _There_ is one son whom the fae left quite the same!”

They left Maitimo to mind the others, and went into the house together.

“The boys must have liked your stories,” Nerdanel said.

“They did.” He paused, and his lips set in a firm line. His thinking face. She tugged him towards her, on the doorstep, to kiss it away.

“You missed me,” she said.

“Always.”


End file.
